


Improbability

by lindsey_grissom



Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, john is arthur dent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-29
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-11 00:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsey_grissom/pseuds/lindsey_grissom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the world might end, Sherlock and Mycroft have their towels and John packs the teabags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Improbability

**Author's Note:**

> I don't attempt humour (or crossovers) very often, this might be why...

After another fight with the chip and pin machine (because modern technology has a very real hatred of him) all John wants to do is sit down and have a nice calming cup of tea. 

He pushes open the door to the flat, three bags in both hands.

"No, don't bother helping Sherlock, I'm fine." He looks up to glare at his flatmate and blinks, pausing in place, his body keeping the door half open. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock looks up at him, eyes shadowed, and bites his lip, an act which in itself wouldn't be much of a cause for alarm, but he has a firm grip on his brother's hand, which is, well, actually kind of terrifying. 

"John." Sherlock says and then stops. He bites his lip again and turns pleading eyes on his brother. _Pleading_. John puts the shopping bags down on the floor carefully and starts to creep forward, his heart pounding hard in his chest.

"Sherlock, tell me." He sits down on the coffee table, facing the brothers. 

"I-Mycroft?" John's eyes widen and he swallows nervously; this is very not good then.

"Doct-John." John tears his eyes away from his friend to look at Mycroft. "I'm afraid, that is to say, it seems-" John can feel his body trembling, all but his left hand anyway. Mycroft never stammers, ever. 

He looks between the two men, eyes flitting from one to the other.

"Will one of you please just tell me what-"

"You're going to die!" The words spurt from Sherlock's lips like a particularly annoying deduction, something he can't wait to release but knows he shouldn't. He slams his mouth closed as soon as he has finished. 

John thinks back over the last few days; he has had a bit of a persistent cold lately, but nothing time and a few good nights won't heal, definitely nothing life threatening.

"What my brother means," Mycroft cuts into John's thoughts, sending a glare at Sherlock but curiously, yes, John did see Mycroft squeeze his brother's hand; "is that the world is ending." He finishes with what is most likely exactly the right level of solemnity.

John frowns. "Again?" And he had just got comfortable with this new one, how _annoying._ John slaps his hands against his thighs and pushes himself to his feet. "Have we got time for a cuppa?"

Silence follows him as he picks up the abandoned carrier bags and carries them into the kitchen. "Sherlock? Mycroft?" He pokes his head back into the living room after a few minutes to find both men staring at him as though he is a potentially explosive package.

"What?" He asks, coming back into the room proper.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. "John, Mycroft just told you the world was ending, shouldn't you be a little more..."He hesitates, flapping a hand erratically. 

"Hysterical?" John offers.

"Panicked." This from Mycroft. 

"No point in that, is there, it won't help. So what is it this time, it's not another bloody bypass? Please tell me it's not the Vogans; I don't think I could survive another poetry reading." Neither of the other men answers him. "Look, it's not like this is the first time this has happened is it?"

If they were other men, with non-Holmes genes, John would interpret their looks as gaping. 

"Yes, John. It is."

_Oh, right. Of course. Still…_

"Look, how long have we got before…?" He mimes an explosion; both brothers jumping as his hands clap together.

"Twenty four hours." Mycroft looks a little green as he says it and this time Sherlock is the one to increase the pressure of their joined hands. 

"Really? Well then, that's plenty of time, isn't it." John heads for the stairs. "Sherlock, grab us a towel each would you? Mycroft, there's a few boxes of tea in the cupboard, if you would. Just in case." In his room, he scrabbles for the box hidden under his mattress and tips out its contents into his hand.

Returning to the living room he finds the two Holmeses exactly where he left them, neither towel nor tea in sight.

"Really, you couldn't have done what I asked just this once? Here, hold this." He shoves the book at Mycroft, the bold **Don't Panic** glinting beneath the light. "I'll do it myself." He grabs three towels from the bathroom; his own trusty green, Sherlock's grey and a spare one in blue gingham for Mycroft. 

In the kitchen he loads up one of the carrier bags with all the packets of teabags he can find; he isn't going through that again.

When he returns to the living room, Sherlock and Mycroft are standing side by side, their shoulders pressed together, peering at the book in Mycroft's hands.

"Be careful with that." He says, slapping Sherlock's towel over the Consulting Detective's shoulder. "It'll be years before the next edition passes this way." He lays Mycroft's towel over the taller man's shoulder and prises the book out of his hands, replacing it with the carrier bag. He tucks the book into his waistband.

"Right, just give me a minute." He says, sliding his thumb into the ring that has, for the last six years or so, kept company with The Guide under his bed. Moving to the window he pushes open the glass and sticks his hand out, fingers curled into his palm and thumb sticking up perpendicular. A beam of light shoots out and John waits a few moments before pulling his hand back in.

He looks back at the other men. "Shouldn't be too long, there's always someone around these parts." He rocks back on his heels, wondering if it would be a little odd to slip into his dressing gown.

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock is watching him with concern and John feels oddly touched by that. 

"Hitchhiking." John replies. "We need to get to the closest galactic office, sort this mess out." 

"What mess?" 

"This end of the world nonsense." The ring on his thumb pulses once, but John is the only one to notice. "Mycroft, do you have a pen?"

The older man blinks, startled, but reaches into his pocket nevertheless and pulls out an expensive Montblanc. He doesn't understand, neither of them do, but John figures there will be plenty of time for explanations later, probably while they are queuing.

"Right. Keep that on you." He says as the ring on his thumb heats up. He takes the last few steps to bring him close to the brothers. Clasping hold of their elbows he can't help but smile. "Here we go."

There's a flash and an odd popping sound in his ears and 221B Baker Street disappears.

They land with a thump in a grim metallic room and John groans. Beside him Sherlock and Mycroft look ready to faint.

"Whatever they say." He says, already hearing the tail end of a badly constructed couplet over the ship's speakers. "Tell them it's wonderful."

"John?" Sherlock sounds like nothing so much as a little boy. John smiles at him reassuringly.

"Welcome to space, Sherlock. Now, if you see anything that resembles a form, pick it up." With that, he reaches up and shoves his thumb into what looks like a piece of loose guttering. "With any luck, the next ship'll be along before these guys know we're here."

"And if we are not lucky?" Mycroft seems to have pulled himself under the strictest of control, although his eyes are blown wide with fear.

"Then just be glad _you_ won't understand them when they start reading to you." John says. The ring heats up again. "Come here. And don't forget the tea!" 

The brothers move in close and to John's relief Mycroft's hold on the carrier bag tightens.

"Everyone got their towels?" He asks, the thumb and finger of his free hand gripping Sherlock's jacket whilst his roommate continues to cling to his older brother's hand. They both nod. "Good, well then."

The doors open just as John feels the familiar energy of another ship surround him. He looks at Sherlock and then Mycroft. "If we end up as some kind of garden furniture, don't worry, it's not permanent."

No one has a chance to respond as they get swept up by the very welcome and highly improbable improbability drive.

As it turns out, the Holmes brothers make very delightful hydrangeas and for the next twenty-two and a half hours John can't help but giggle every time he spots an errant petal in their hair. 

After all, the world might be on the very tip of destruction again, but John has found that a poor excuse for a lack of humour in these sorts of situations.


End file.
